Where Do All the Ants Go? 

When I was in third grade, standing in front of a mirror with two plaits of hair on either side held hostage by two ribbons of equal size cut precisely by the store owner, I saw the most spectacular sight: a trail of ants, marching marching and marching. I screamed and asked, “Amma! Where do all the ants go?” Her screaming response amidst the pressure cooker whistles told me something similar to how they were headed to a wedding. The little parcels they were carrying were gifts for the bride and the groom. What a well organised wedding guests! 

Another day, with the white foam of toothpaste slicking down my chin in front of a blue Hindware washbasin, I saw another trail of ants marching marching and marching. Another wedding! To see their disciple, I tried to break the crowd by placing a finger breaking the single file line with parcels for the bride-groom. After a detour, they were joined again, all disciplined, without a tut-tut of noise except for the Lub-dub of dripping water from the soap stained rusted pipe. What a well united family! 

Often I see them escape into the tiny pip-like holes in the walls in my 20 something year old house, and I wonder if they reside there, packing parcels for the next wedding, the wedding after and the wedding after that. I imagine them seeking revenge for breaking their family once, a toothpaste monster with a giant finger breaking their commotion, by gnawing on the 20 something year old bricks and wood and cement and all those that go into a building. 

Sometimes, they roam around aimlessly like military troops in the border. Sometimes, they disappear from our house only to turn up in the next summer again, gnawing and chewing and packing and pip-pipping holes. 

After all these time, I still wonder, 

Where do all the ants go? 

A wedding? A funeral? 

A home? 

Or as those young people call it, 

Are they 

Wanderlusts? 

- Krishna J. Nair | 18.06.2020

Save Our Souls 

. . . - - - . . . 

“Did you hear the notes,

All the static codes, 

In the radio Abyss

Strangers in this town, 

They raise you up just to cut you down.

Oh Angela, it’s a long time coming

Home at last.”

The Lumineers, Angela. 

The static codes meant that a life has passed on, that there was one less soul in this phase called ‘life’. The waves meant that there was a life, that there were endless possibilities. For waves were just as stories, they all ended when somewhere else they began, just to end again. And yes, the waves are countless.

The static codes began looming as a shadow from the corners of a street at first. Then it started appearing everywhere; in front of a rusty billboard, across an old film poster with the name torn apart, beside the talented chai vendor who managed to not spill a drop as though his life mattered on it. Maybe it did matter for him, it was his way of living. Mine was very different, for I believed that humans needed a solid anchor to hold them to ground. 

There used to be fairs when the vendor gave me balloons after minutes of bargaining. There was a time when I used to tie them to the bed post, hoping that they’d never fly far away. They managed to get away at times, but was stopped by the bouncers- the ceiling. They were anchored. I thought that was necessary for everything, even for myself. 

But maybe, floating is as beautiful as being stationed. “Earth to human, dear!,” they used to yell at the day dreamer. But they remained to float, there was nothing weighing them down. So tonight, I am letting the anchor go lose from my arm, I am ready to float again; for I am sure that the waves will wash away the static codes, and the ship will guide me home somehow. To exist, you don’t have to be tethered to ground; you can fly and fly and still realize that you’ll be sent back down by the bouncers – the unknown. 

-Krishna J. Nair, Save Our Souls

27^th November, 2017. 

MATCHBOX

There are certain materials 
I desperately hold onto 
For I often fear, if I let go 
It'll be gone before dawn. 
There is a green box with red
Writing on the lid 
On the brown table in my room, 
Next to my blue curtain 
And a white notebook. 
I keep matchboxes in them. 
Matchboxes I have stolen 
From different venues. 
There is one with the red tip,
the green tip, the brown tip.
On nights where darkness dawns, 
I ablaze one, and hold it into the tight. 
Desperately. It burns from Friday 
Through Monday, before the curtain
Is violated by the rays. 
It burns my eyes and my skicn 
And my toe and every inch 
I long to hide under layers 
Of blankets hiding me like 
layers of skin wishing to be 
Peeled away. 
I hold onto things desperately 
Like the matchstick in the night. 
When it burns out, 
I strike one again. 
And one again. 
One more 
Until the 
Ashes cover 
My skin. 

-Krishna J. Nair | Matchbox | 26.03.2020

FROM THE LIGHT HOUSE

For Achyuth C. Sekhar. Thanks for picking up the phone and asking me to post something and remembering that this blog still exists.

“Days of my youth wasted on a selfish fool

Who ran for the hills from the hand you were dealt

I flew far away, as far as I could go

Your time is running out

And I'm a long way from home.”

-The Lumineers, Long Way From Home. 

The beauty of walls is that you decide how to make them, and even if they break you know how to mend them. You either make them strong by interlocking, or you stack them up and let them fall on a fine day. Every structure has a wall, and it is a bare necessity. 

You see the world through the eyes of the beholder. Standing on the circular platform three hundred and fifty two feet above, admiring the panorama view. You face the sea lashing against the shore. The lights from the structure falling on the sea, breaking all the possible reflections and guiding those who are lost to their home. Under the searchlights you stood lost, making your hollow bricks. 

Brick one: You hung your legs down the ledge letting nothing block you, feeling the breeze caress you like your mum did when you were young. 

Brick two: Your phone flashed with your pa’s laughing face, awaiting to hear your voice. The green and the red options glared at you, and you chose the one with the longer wavelength. 

Brick three: You slowly untied your shoes and let them fly and crash into the sea. The waves caught them and set them free. 

Brick four: The headlines announced your ship sailing, and you hid under the search lights, living like a ghost.

Brick five: The doors flew open, with arms at the end. You folded yours, and shut the door on their smiling faces. Through the door left the last bit of hope. 

Brick six: You raised yourself down the ledge, holding onto the rusty pillars as wobbly as your life. You hung there, fearlessly. And that was the worst form of fear. 

Brick seven: The doors opened again and they saw your stunt. Curiously, they gave their hands to you. You waved them goodbye and continued to smile. They all left except one, who empathized with you. 

Brick eight: You told your story, you let him listen. You raised yourself up and spoke. The doors remained close and no one knocked again. 

Together, you built more bricks; hollow, flawless bricks with your names engraved on it. Through the hidden spaces, you continued to watch the world; and they all thought you both disappeared. 

One fine day, the stacked up bricks fell apart. 

And that was okay. 

The doors flew open with no one on the other side.

And that was okay. 

You both fell down the spiral stairs

And that was okay. 

The headlines screamed your names. 

And that was okay too. 

In the end, everything was okay. You could breathe again through the paths where the autumn leaves flew along with the wind. For the first time in a million years, it didn’t hurt anymore. 

Krishna J. Nair, From The Light House

19^thDecember, 2o17. 

DARLING.

“I was living like half a man

Then I couldn't love but now I can

You pick me up when I'm feeling sad
More soul than I ever had”
-The Beach Boys, Darlin’

Darling, 

Let’s tie a hammock between the electric lines and lie down close to each other, snuggling for each other’s warmth as though we are fireplaces. Trust me, we are safe; for there is no greater surge than the spark between us.

Those watching us will alert the officials saying that they are witnessing a fire, for you are one and I the ice. Sometimes, you outshine, melt me away into nothingness; you ablaze into the night.

Let’s live in denial for a moment and look at the world. Deny whatever there is between us while comforting each other, confirming that we are okay when we are clearly not. Deny the spark and gaze into the moonlight, spotting the Sirius and Canopus. Let’s deny that the world is in chaos and anything and everything is shattered and broken. Deny the possibilities of not having a tomorrow, not existing anymore; because what are we even sure of? Deny all the promises we made to each other and to everyone else, for we will never fulfill them, for we are forever selfish. Deny all the worries pulling you down stronger than gravity. He maybe the weakest force, but sometimes the unseen wind affects you more than a cyclone.

Darling, we are okay in this world of denial. We are not barred, not broken, not hopeless. Let’s ponder here for a while and continue to breathe, shall we?

HEY ROSALINE

“We lived through scars this time,

But I’ve made up my mind

We can’t leave us behind anymore.”

-James Bay, Scars.

Photosource: Pinterest.

Hey Rosaline,

It is just as you have dreamed, or the dream that you’ve told me of what you always wanted. Rosaline, they found you by the river where you stayed awake looking at the ripples rushing away. Some said you were found hanging from a wire that looked like grape vine, some said your soul was sucked out till your last breath by chemicals that you forced in yourself. And then some said that you liberated yourself like a puff of vapor, an invisible puff of vapor. But we know what happened, don’t we? Your secret is safe with me.

The slow music is playing in the hall, with you lying peacefully in a casket filled with bed of roses. You hated roses, do this people even know you? Or they put you there because your name has ‘rose’ in it. There are so many unfamiliar faces in the crowd, smeared in red, black, gold; the palette all artist chose. But these people are the ugliest paintings, filled with pretension, masked with fake tears and frowns. They sneak in the casket to see you, and they murmur, “She was a nice girl”, “She didn’t deserve to die”, “Why did she kill herself anyway?”, “It must be a love failure”. Rosaline, don’t listen to their whispers and lies, these are the hymns that drove you to the riverside, choosing whatever you chose to open the cage, so that you could disappear into thin air. The wet tissues smeared with the lipstick lies beside your coffin, like the tissues that wiped away the life that trickled down your palm, embracing the scars. Those white papers had life. The ones lying next to you, they are dead; just like you. Listen to the playlist being played in the hall, for you handpicked them before you left. Rosaline, you deserve this beautiful funeral. You deserve all the beautiful things in the world.

They are wrapping you in a shiny white cloth, tying your legs, hands and face. They are trying to lock you again Rosaline, but fear not. I am here, I’ll be here till you come again; appear again somewhere in the universe. And when you come, I’ll be there by the riverside, my palm opened to embrace yours; the one filled with scars, pills and booze.

They lit the fire to your pyre, and you look like the most peaceful camp fire I have ever seen. They are contaminating the soil you are lying in with their snot, tears and existence. But fear not Rosaline, I’ll clean that up before you come again. For now, sway with the smoke rising towards the sky. You’ll form the densest cloud in the darkest sky, the darkest cloud called Rosaline. You’ll fall as the purest rain by the river side, and I’ll be there with open palms, feeling you again as you descend; this time for a better life and for a better time.

-Krishna J. Nair, Hey Rosaline

10^th December, 2017.